


Jolly Sailor Bold

by SEABlRD



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Mermaids, Angst, M/M, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-23 05:22:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEABlRD/pseuds/SEABlRD
Summary: My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering goldThere is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold-----------Damen is a sailing merchant, and Laurent is his landlocked tailor lover. When the call of new trade deals takes Damen overseas, Laurent can do nothing but count the months until his return.But alas, what happens at sea doesn't always stay at sea...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! I know its been a little bit since i posted anything, but i've been getting my ass kicked by this specific wip since january-ish ...? I'm getting a little impatient with it so here's the first part! It's not done yet but I'm pretty far into it, so keep an eye out for updates as they come! After this first handful of short chapters im gonna try and do once a week posts ( 'v')b
> 
> passing shoutout to @[ThatGothLibrarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/profile) for being so patient with me every time i stop by his DMs griping about this one wip lmaooo sorry bud :')
> 
> now without further ado, welcome to mermaid hell *strikes a pose*

The salt of the sea stings in Laurent’s eyes, wind sweeping his hair over his shoulders. He clutches his jacket closer to himself, walking briskly past the docks. The silver watch is warm in his pocket, even through the fabric of his clothes. Damen was supposed to meet with him twenty minutes ago, before he took his new ship on her maiden voyage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Laurent spots a familiar figure in the shadows of the port walls. Relieved, he hastens his pace to join him, but the sight of another familiar, blonde head stops him in his tracks. Suspicious, and curious, he slides closer until he can duck behind a stack of crates, and listens in.

“You must listen to me, Damen,” Jokaste is saying, hushed and quick. “You cannot take the Lion’s Fortune to sea today. Wait a few days, please, I only need a short while to speak with your brother.”

“Nonsense, Jo,” Damen replies, holding her shoulders reassuringly. “Kastor and I have been planning this trip for ages. Nothing will go wrong, I swear it to you. Kastor will come back home to you and the babe before you even notice his absence.”

Jokaste’s delicate noble’s hands come up to cradle her swollen stomach, and she shakes her head. “It’s not the babe I’m worried for,” she takes a step back, and spots Laurent behind the crates. Her eyes widen, and when Damen follows her line of sight she takes the momentary distraction to flee.

“My love,” Damen’s face lights up with a bright grin. He rounds the crates and takes Laurent into his arms, and Laurent tries not to notice how Damen’s shirt is misbuttoned. “I’m sorry for missing our meeting time, as you can see I was quite distracted.”

“Yes,” is all Laurent can muster.

“I believe Jokaste might be nervous for Kastor’s wellbeing on the trip,” Damen continues. He turns around, searching briefly for the woman, before returning his attention to Laurent. “I don’t blame her for it, really. It’s storm season right now, but Kas and I are both great sailors.”

Laurent leans into Damen’s touch, shielding himself briefly from the sea. He takes advantage of the proximity to fix Damen’s buttons. “And the trip will be good for your father’s business,” he adds, and feels Damen nodding above him.

“And the trip will be good for the business.”

Damen steers them toward the ship, the Lion’s Fortune, named for Damen’s family crest. She bobs ever so slightly in the water, pulling at her moorings like an eager hound on a leash. The crew is milling about on the deck, some even climbing up the rigging. Her sails slowly unfurl, in preparation for her departure.

“How long will you be gone?” Laurent asks, though he knows Damen’s plan front to back. They’ve gone over the details often enough in the past few days that he’s memorized it, and he mouths the words silently as Damen repeats them.

“We’ll be out at sea for no more than forty days,” Damen tells him, tapping the spot over Laurent’s heart where the silver watch rests in his breast pocket. “You can count it out on this little beauty. We’ll be in Vask for perhaps a week or so, maybe two at the most for negotiating trade routes, and then we’ll be back in the same amount of days. Four months at the very longest, if the sea is kind.”

“She is not,” Laurent points out. “Not often.”

Damen lets out a laugh. “I will tame her and make her kind, then. And when we return, we will be thousands richer! I will take you to Patras and put a ring on your finger then, one that’s worth even a fraction of one of your priceless smiles.”

And Laurent gives him one, a small tugging of his lips that Damen leans over to kiss sweetly, licking Laurent’s mirth playfully in the brief few moments left before the departure.

Laurent almost believes him, waving with the rest of the crowd as Damen climbs up onto the deck. The moorings are loosened and the Lion’s Fortune is heaved out of the port by a strong wind. The crew continue to wave enthusiastically until they’re nothing more than a handful of specks on the horizon.

Laurent turns away as the ship disappears into the distance, catching sight of Jokaste’s retreating back as she, too, takes her leave only at the very last.

His mind drifts back to the overheard conversation from before, and he hopes for her sake that Kastor returns safely. It wouldn’t do, after all, for a child to never know its father.


	2. The First Month

The first month feels long and drawn out. The town of Marlas is small, and not much happens here that would hold a person’s interest for longer than a few days at the most, but it’s home no matter how dull the days that pass may be.

Despite the slow life of the town Laurent’s small tailoring shop is doing great business, and his mentor Charls is pleased with his quality of work, but even losing himself in stitches and fabric isn’t enough to distract him from the lingering lack of Damen’s presence.

Berenger comes to him to have one of his suits adjusted rather often. He’s a minor lord from the bigger city of Arles, so it’s a wonder what the man thought when he decided to move to Marlas, but Laurent appreciates his patronage. Perhaps he’s a fan of Laurent’s work, or maybe he appreciates how Laurent doesn’t waste time with small talk, compared to other tailors in town. Perhaps he better trusts a man like himself, in love with another man.

It could be a multitude of reasons, really.

It thus comes as no surprise that Berenger arrives one day with a new suit and a friend, more of a recommendation really; a tall Patran gentleman with a jacket that’s been gifted to him.

“That’s the trouble with gifts,” Berenger says as Laurent is marking down the work that needs to be done on his new dress pants, engaging in rare conversation. “They’re not always fitted for you.”

“Quite right,” the Patran says. Laurent thinks he might have introduced himself as Torveld. He lays his jacket onto the counter separating himself from Laurent, looking apologetic. “I’m afraid that it’s the shoulders that need to be brought in, for me. I’m aware of the work that might be, and I’m willing to pay extra if needed.”

Laurent tries not to let the surprise show on his face, putting down his list for the pants. “A friend of Berenger’s is a friend of mine,” he says pleasantly as he reaches for the jacket. It looks to be of good quality. “I can’t, in good conscience, charge you extra.”

“Please,” Torveld’s hand comes down on Laurent’s as he brushes his fingers over the fabric. Laurent stiffens under the touch, the line of his shoulders rising slightly. “Mister DeVere, I insist. Let me pay you for what the work is worth.”

Politely, Laurent pulls his hand out from under Torveld’s. “Well, who am I to refuse such a kind gesture?”

The Patran’s smile is cheerful and sweet, even more so as Laurent takes him over to the small raised platform near the back of the shop, having the tall man stand on it so that he might take the measurements and have him try the jacket on. Berenger takes his leave,

Laurent keeps the contact to a minimum, only touching the man when he absolutely must. The ribbon he uses to measure Torveld’s shoulders flutters in his hands as the man fidgets in place, restless only in the way one might be when they’re told they absolutely must be still. Laurent is bending down, about eye level with Torveld’s chest, when the Patran speaks again.

“You have a watch?” Torveld asks, and Laurent briefly looks down at his own chest, where his vest had bent open enough for him to see the familiar silver chain.

“I do,” Laurent confirms, straightening. He carefully stashes his ribbon into the loop of his belt at his hip, and pulls the watch out of his pocket, opening it up to show the pearlescent watch face inside. The initials ‘D.V’ are scratched on the inside of the cover, as though someone had taken a knife to it and engraved it by hand. Laurent knows that that is, in fact, the case. “It was given to me by… a close friend.”

Torveld looks at it closely, running the tip of his index finger over the crude engraving. Laurent fights the urge to pull it away.

“I see,” Torveld says. “It’s quite good quality. How long have you had it?”

“Only about a year or so.”

“Hm,” the Patran nods, considering. “Have you thought of bringing it to be repaired? It seems to be needing a fix, the second hand is moving slower than it should.”

Laurent snatches the watch away and brings it up to his face for inspection. In his head he counts the seconds. Under his watchful eye, the watch’s second hand slows down incrementally, the amount of time between each laboured movement drawing on. He has no idea how long he stands there, watching the device slowly failing, until the next tick refuses to come.

“It’s stopped,” Laurent says, lowering it.

“I’m sorry,” Torvend says, still patiently still while he waits for Laurent to resume measuring. “It’s a fine watch. Well worth the trouble to have it fixed, I’d say.”

Laurent nods, slipping the watch back into his vest pocket. “Yes,” he hears himself say, retrieving his measuring ribbon from where he’d tucked it into his belt. “Where were we?”

He finishes taking the measurements for the jacket, relieved to find that the amount of work needing to be done is less than he’d first thought, and marks all the required adjustments in his book. Torveld is willing to pay half of the sum upfront, which Laurent can’t help but accept, and they make small talk while Laurent politely escorts him out the door.

“I’d be more than glad to refer you to a watchmaker I know,” Torveld offers for the second time. “His work is quite good, and very timely, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“Thank you, but I know of a reliable watchmaker, myself,” Laurent refuses again, as delicately as he can.

Torveld chuckles softly to himself. “Of course you do,” he says. “I’ll thank you in advance for the work on the jacket, Mister DeVere. I will be back in a few weeks to pick it up.”

Laurent hesitates in the doorway as Torveld begins on his way, and finds himself speaking before he can lose the nerve.

“Is it true, that two men can be married in Patras?” Laurent asks, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the distance, he knows. He doesn’t know if he can afford to be heard by anyone else. “Legally, I mean. The way a man and a woman can be married.”

Torveld turns back to him with a quirked, indulgent smile. “Of course, Mister DeVere. We pride ourselves on our open-mindedness.”

Laurent is waving Torveld goodbye, but all he can think of is Damen.

 

 

“What do you mean you cannot repair it?” Laurent demands again, frowning at his watch. The watchmaker nervously adjusts his glasses, scratching the back of his head through his thin greying hair.

“I know what it may sound like, sir,” the watchmaker stutters out. “I did everything I could, everything I knew how! Everything fits the way it should but for some reason, it seems like your watch simply refuses to work. I’m afraid to say, I cannot repair something that does not want to be fixed.”

Laurent pulls away from the counter and holds the watch protectively to his chest. It feels cold even through the layers of his clothes. “I will have someone else look at it, then,” he says icily. “Thank you for your time.”

He exits the shop brusquely, the bell over the door ringing harsher than he intends as he takes his leave. The streets are filled with wind and the air from the sea as a storm brews just beyond the port. Laurent looks down at his watch, rubbing his thumb over the silver cover almost in apology before he slips it into its familiar place in his vest pocket.

He makes is way back to his home by ducking into storefronts and hiding behind walls, keeping his face shielded from the elements in his lapels. By the time he reaches his own front door his vest is entirely soaked through.

He stumbles into his home, kicking off his shoes and draping his vest over the back of a chair. He is quick to start a fire in the hearth, his shoulders drawing up to his ears as though that might protect him from the howling wind outside. Once he’s sufficiently warmed up, he retrieves his watch from the soaked vest pocket and takes it with him to the table, where he sits down heavily in one of the available chairs.

He pops the cover of the watch open and rubs the inside, feeling the rough edges of Damen’s initials against the pad of his thumb. The watch is soaked now, too, but Laurent supposes that wouldn’t change much. It won’t work any more than it did before, after all.

Despite his exhaustion, Laurent’s mind whirs nonstop; every time he closes his eyes he jerks awake to the sensation of falling, face pressed into the wood of the table. He might as well get something productive done, while he’s still awake.

With a groan and a roll of his shoulders, Laurent heads to his and Damen’s shared bedroom and huffs at the mess Damen had left behind on the writing desk. Loose papers with scribbled plans and unintelligible diagrams litter the surface, entirely covering Laurent’s own professionally-bound notebooks below.

Laurent will surprise Damen on his return, with a nicely organized desk and sorted papers. Maybe that way, the man would stop complaining about losing his important things, for once. Besides, with enough luck, the menial task is enough to take Laurent’s mind off of the loss of Damen’s presence.


	3. The Second Month

The second month starts off with some cheerful news, in a way. Only a few days after finishing Torveld’s jacket adjustments, an errand boy finds Laurent in his shop to deliver a message: Laurent is invited to Damen’s family estate by none other than Jokaste herself, being the closest she has to family in town at the moment. The midwife meets him at the door with a bundle of washed cloth under one arm and a bucket of steaming water in the other.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” the woman exclaims, frustration bleeding into every aspect of her tone and body language. “The lady went into labor this morning, and it’s nearly two in the afternoon!”

“I’m sorry, my watch has stopped working,” Laurent says in way of explanation. “I haven’t really been keeping track of the time.”

“Well, go on then! She’ll need a friendly face quite soon,” the midwife ushers him in and all but pushes him up the stairs. “And my hand is getting sore from all her squeezin’. I’ll be needing these hands when she’s getting ready to push!”

Jokaste is in one of the guest rooms, laying on the mess of tangled bedsheets and groaning in pain. The instant she spots Laurent in the doorway one of her hands lashes out and beckons him forward demandingly. Uncertain of what else to do, Laurent obeys and puts his hand in hers.

Instantly the squeezing begins, and Laurent wonders how the midwife’s hand is still intact. There’s the strong possibility that it might actually be broken, or sprained at the very least. He puts his other hand on top of Jokaste’s and squeezes back.

Jokaste looks up at him through a curtain of sweaty blonde hair, appreciative. 

The birth is long and arduous, and Jokaste screams loud enough to wake the dead. Laurent fears for her life quite seriously at the amount of blood she produces, but the midwife assures him that it happens sometimes and is quite treatable. For the sake of Damen’s nephew, Laurent hopes that the child might be able to grow up with both his mother and father.

Baby Leander is finally ready to be born just before suppertime, and the midwife starts a fire in the fireplace to keep the room warm with the falling temperature of the night. When the squirming babe is put into Jokaste’s waiting arms both the child and his mother seem to give a sigh of relief. Laurent breathes a sigh of relief as well, for a slightly different reason. He clutches his sore hand to himself, ignoring the midwife’s tired voice asking him if he’d like some cold water for it.

He watches the midwife leave, cleaning up her supplies and heading into other parts of the house to continue preparations for the care of the child. Beside him, Jokaste turns toward him with exhaustion written all over her deathly pale features.

“Thank you,” she rasps. “For being here. I only wish…”

Laurent can imagine what it is she only wishes for. He reaches for her hand with his uninjured one and squeezes it gently.

“I’m sure he would have wished to be here for you as well,” he says. “And Damen too, of course. He would probably demand to be the first to hold him, after you’ve had your turn.”

Jokaste looks down at baby Leander with a tight, unreadable smile. “Would you like to hold him, then? In Damen’s honor.”

She carefully passes the baby to him, minding his head. The thickly bundled cloth around little Leander provide Laurent with a cushion, and he isn’t so afraid of squeezing a little. Leander’s newborn wailing has long since quieted into gentle sobs, and the baby’s dark brown eyes squint up at him almost suspiciously between hiccups.

“Your uncle is going to love you,” Laurent says, unable to contain his giddy smile at the thought of Damen losing all his composure upon meeting his first nephew. “He’s going to spoil you silly, I just know it. You’re lucky he isn’t your father, truly, or you might have never heard the end of it.”

In the peripherals of his vision he sees Jokaste turn her head into the pillows, eyes fixed on the low blaze in the hearth. Laurent feels a pang in his heart for her; she must be exhausted after her first labor. He rocks Leander gently in his arms and keeps his voice low, to let the new mother rest.


	4. The Third Month - part 1

Jokaste waits nearly a month before she presents her new son to the public; something she decides in the days after her long and arduous birth. She doesn’t want to put any strain on the babe’s health, she says, and so reduces the chance of illness and infection by keeping him sequestered away at the estate.

Laurent spends his time between his shop and the estate, fussing over little Leander in the way a doting uncle would. He’s sure Damen would laugh at him, if only he knew how a child could bring the ruthless and stubborn Laurent to his knees.

“You do not have to be so,” Jokaste tells him, motioning vaguely with her free hand, the other occupied with cradling Leander, his head nestled against the crook of her elbow. “How to say this politely. Fretful?”

“I’m not fretful,” Laurent replies, setting the bundle of custom-made baby clothes on the nightstand. He’d made them himself over the course of the past two weeks, between working on clients’ orders. “I am the appropriate amount of worried, considering no other men in our household are present to provide sufficient care.”

“There _are_ no other men in _my_ household,” Jokaste levels him a pointed look. “You are not married into my household.”

“Not yet.”

Instead of offering a reply, Jokaste simply inclines her head in the manner of one humoring a child’s whimsy. She picks up the pile of clothes and puts them on top of the dresser instead and then sweeps gracefully out into the hall, Leander’s babbling drifting after her. Uncertain as to what he should do, Laurent can only follow.

“You are planning on introducing him soon?” Laurent asks as he falls into step with her. He reaches out and wiggles his fingers in Leander’s face, and the baby grabs at his hand excitedly.

“Of course,” Jokaste states. “It is more than time to introduce him to the world. He is past the risk of infection by now, or so the physician has told me.”

Laurent nods. “That’s good.”

She leads them down the staircase and into the parlor, where a servant has generously put out a set of tea and biscuits for him, and a foamy glass of stout beer for her. Laurent takes the seat closest to the door, while Jokaste sinks primly into the cushions of the loveseat.

“It’s been some time since our boys have been away,” she comments offhandedly. She picks up the glass and takes a generous sip from it. “Almost two full months now, has it?”

“It has.”

She looks through the window, distracted. Outside, a storm brews. It’s been stormy since the Lion’s Fortune left the port. “I hope they return soon, and safe.”

Laurent doesn’t know how long they sit there, making idle conversation and drinking cooling tea. The sky grows dark, with evening and with the storm, and the parlor is lit only by the crackling fireplace. Branches rattle against the side of the mansion, shaking the foundation and making the baby cry.

The knocking comes just as evening is turning to night. Heavy pounding at the door, almost lost in the noise of the storm, jerks Laurent back into alert consciousness. He rises and hurries to the door before the servants and flings it open, revealing a drenched shivering dockworker.

“The Fortune’s returned!” The boy says, stumbling into the vestibule and tracking mud and water all over the floor. “The Lion’s Fortune, she’s coming into the harbor!”

Lightning runs from the thunderheads above and down into Laurent’s spine. Stiffly, he turns back to the parlor where Jokaste is standing in the doorway. Behind her, Leander’s wailing sobs drown in the noises from outside. She’s back far too early, both Laurent and Jokaste know it, and that can never be a good sign.

“Go,” Jokaste says, voice strangled. A flash of lightning from the window cuts her features in sharp relief.

With her permission, Laurent is pushing the dockworker aside and sprinting out the door.

  


Laurent slips on the rain-slicked stone twice before he manages to reach the docks, his knees and left hip still smarting from the impact of his falls. His trousers and vest are completely soaked through, but he cares little for the clothing at this point.

He sees the Lion’s Fortune at the farthest dock, a handful of other dockworkers scrambling to moor her in the tossing waters. Laurent clings tight to the railing as he descends the stairs into the port, his legs nearly giving out when he hits the wood of the docks running.

The side of the ship comes into clarity through the curtain of rain, and with each flash of the storm Laurent can see that something is dreadfully wrong. She looms in the darkness like a hulking, injured beast. Even her timbers groan as if in pain. When Laurent is finally at her dock he can see the railings of her starboard side are mangled beyond repair.

“Sir!” One of the dockhands calls to him. “Stay back! They need to lower the plank!”

A long wooden slat clatters to the dock from the ship’s deck and, one by one, the crew begins to descend. Meaningless faces pass Laurent as the members disembark, blurring into each other until finally Laurent is looking up at the deck of the ship where Kastor’s familiar form is standing alone against the railing, outlined in the lightning above.

Kastor’s eyes meet his through the rain and he shakes his head. Laurent barely registers himself as he sinks to his knees.

The third month ends before it can begin.


	5. The Third Month - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _heck_ i know it hasnt been a whole week yet but im honestly shocked at the amount of hits, kudos, and comments you guys left on this in like, the first two days :') yall got me too hype i had to post this early haha
> 
> thank you guys so much for your responses to this fic!! i really hope you're gonna enjoy this and i hope i can keep you on the edge of your seats for as long as i can ;3c

It was a freak wave, Kastor says. During a storm, they were pushing the Lion’s Fortune as fast as she could take them to get home as soon as possible, he explains. They’d made excellent time on their way to Vask despite the weather, and felt like pushing their luck for the return trip. The wave came from nowhere and hit them broadside, throwing many of those on deck at the time overboard, along with crates and barrels and other ship paraphernalia. Most of the crew that had been thrown were rescued, but Damen and a few others must have been caught in the debris and were lost.

“We couldn’t see anything,” Kastor mutters, his face pressed into his hands. Laurent had led him back to the estate as soon as he’d gotten off the Fortune, the taller man shivering uncontrollably in the rain. It’s been hours since then, and Kastor has been washed and dressed and warmed up before Laurent or Jokaste allowed him to sit down and explain what happened. “The water was so dark, each new wave that came was like the mouth of Charybdis herself. We’re lucky not to have sunk entirely.”

Jokaste can’t seem to muster any words, and she leans her hip against the table with Leander softly crying against her chest. Kastor barely spares a glance for his newborn son. She shifts the baby to cradle him in one arm and reaches over the unfathomable distance to squeeze Kastor’s shoulder, a wordless reassurance.

“I’m sure Damen would have appreciated the effort,” Laurent says, forcing the words past his closed throat. “He would have known you did all you could to save him. He would’ve wanted you to keep yourself and the Fortune safe above all else, so you could come home to Jo and the babe.”

When Kastor looks up at him Laurent can feel the cold, silent watch in his breast pocket grow heavier. 

“I’m sorry,” Kastor whispers miserably. The weight of the loss hits the man fully, perhaps for the first time since the fact, and he pulls in a shuddering breath before collapsing into his arms against the table again. “I’m so sorry.”

  
  


They put Kastor to bed after letting him vent his grief well into the small hours of the morning. The storm outside finally abates just as the sun is breaking over the horizon, and Laurent watches as the clouds dissolve over the reddening sky.

He’d been unable to sleep even after the household had gone silent, Jokaste and Kastor to separate rooms and the servants to their quarters. He stays up even as his eyes begin to burn, staring up at the high ceiling of the guest room he’d been given, pinned to the soft bed beneath him by the weight of his watch. 

The house only just begins to stir in the early hours when he decides he can’t take it anymore. He gets up as quietly as possible, not to disturb the rest of the inhabitants, and makes his way out the front door. The streets are empty save for the few unfortunate folk and the drunkards stumbling between the buildings, tripping on cobblestones.

It’s a long walk to the harbor and then past it, as Laurent walks as far as his legs will take him. He leaves the town behind, following the travelling road until he is flanked by forest on his left, and stretches of unmarked beaches uncovered by the low tide on his right.

He turns right. The rain-logged sand barely sinks under his footsteps when he crosses it, walking delicately toward the sea. After a thousand years he finally steps into the receding water, small waves lapping at his feet.

Where were these small, soft waves when Damen had been coming home? 

The watch in his pocket is still cold when Laurent takes it out, not even warmed from the proximity to his body. He unhooks the chain from his vest and opens it, tracing the scratched letters on the inside. The skin of his thumb catches on a sharp edge, smearing a dark streak over the initials. He barely registers the pain of the cut. The blood runs into the grooves, blotting out the letters, and it makes Laurent irrationally angry. He tries to wipe it off, succeeding only in spreading it around and further marring the engraving.

Disgusting.

He cocks his arm and throws the watch as far as he can into the rumbling surf and watches as it lands in the water some ways off with barely even a splash, and the sea finally takes everything good that Laurent ever had.

It’s fitting, isn’t it? That the one thing Damen had given him had stopped working, and left Laurent bereft and abandoned, just like the man who’d owned it before him. Laurent had been accused by many, before Damen, of being an island on the ocean; lonely, isolated, uninhabitable. Damen had brought out everything good in him, had  _ been  _ everything good about him. And now he’s gone, and Laurent has nobody to blame for it.

Despite the well of grief that churns inside him, Laurent can’t bring himself to cry for the loss of his lover. It feels as though his sadness manifests as a void of emotion, leaving him a soundless ghost, unable to express it. An island, indeed.

He lets his legs give out until he’s sitting on the damp sand, the rain and seawater soaking into the seat of his trousers. Helpless against the falling tide, he rests both of his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands. 

Laurent has no idea how long he sits there, away from the town and away from the reminder that Damen had gone out to sea and hadn’t come back. Jokaste has her husband and her baby, and Laurent? He has the reassurance that the crew did everything they could, given the circumstances. Bullshit. 

The wind around him makes his wet clothes cold.

 

 

The sun is up and bright when he lowers his hands from his face, distracted from himself by the grumbling of his stomach. He’d likely missed breakfast by now, he thinks, and reaches mindlessly to his vest pocket to check the time.

It’s only when he touches the flat fabric of the empty pocket that he remembers what he’d done earlier, in his fit of anger. 

His eyes dart toward the water, where the tide is slowly beginning to rise again. 

Laurent scrambles to his feet and nearly trips over himself to reach the edge of the water, and without hesitation he walks straight into the seafoam, clothes and all. 

“No, no, no,” he mutters, bent over with his hands in the loose sand, feeling desperately for the watch. He wades further out, until he can no longer reach the bottom without dunking his head underwater. He kicks the sand, hoping to stir up the debris enough to make the metal reflect some light, anything that might help him find it in the murk.

“Damen,” he gasps, as if the man might hear him. “Please…”

He stands up to his chest in the sea, treading water slightly to avoid being drawn in by the undertow. The water constricts around him, choking him, drowning him, and the sun above him shines unhindered in a clear sky. The storm season is over, of course, only after taking the best of men. 

Laurent raises his arms and brings them back down on the water violently with his hands curled in fists, again, and again... It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair. It’s childish, he knows, but he feels like a child. He’s lost and alone in an ugly world that hates him, and he hates it right back. There was only one good thing about it, and the sea ripped it from Laurent’s hands before he’d even really had the right to call it his.

And yet, he can’t even claim the taste of salt on his lips for his tears.  An island, indeed.

 

 

The way back into town is miserable. People are whispering, staring, averting their eyes hastily from the sopping wet form of Laurent shambling through the streets only half-aware of his own whereabouts. 

“It’s such a shame,” a woman tuts in his direction before turning to the baker. “That poor boy lost the lad he fancied to the sea.”

“Not that I support his... lifestyle,” the man huffs as he kneads the dough for his bread. “But that don’t mean it ain’t a shame. Terrible way to go, that.”

Laurent shuts them out along with the other mutterings and shuffles faster, tripping over cobbles to get back to his home as quickly as possible.

“I hope that lad found the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker,” another elderly man exclaims, waving his tankard of ale as he gestures to the bustling street at large. “Y’know what they say ‘bout those who don’t. Cused! Cursed, I tell ya!”

It’s too early to be drinking, Laurent thinks to himself, and truth be told he isn’t one for drinking anyway, but he finds himself understanding the urge.

When he finally reaches his home, unlocking the front door with fumbling hands, he’s heard more opinions about himself and Damen than he’s ever heard in the years he’d known the man. It’s incredible how a person’s death can bring out the worst of the whispers. Have they no respect for the dead? 

Laurent struggles to pull himself a chair with his shaking fingers, still damp from the ocean and chilled from the walk home. He’s shivering as he sits down, feeling a pang at the memory of the last time he’d been in a similar position.

The watch never did start working again since then, despite Laurent’s best efforts. All that effort that has gone to ruin, now that said watch is rolling along the bottom of the seabed. 

Stupid. Stupid of him to give in to his frustrated impulse. 

He remembers the day Damen gifted it to him, as the first declaration of his intentions. Damen had been so nervous, uncharacteristically so, fearful of what Laurent might say or how he might react. It was a shot in the dark for the merchant, who’s previous subtle advances Laurent hadn’t reciprocated, or so Damen believed. For every touch, every word, every smile that Damen gave him, Laurent fought to tear down his own inner walls one brick at a time. 

He’d wanted the man, of course. Who wouldn’t? Laurent had barricaded himself, his emotions, for so long before meeting Damen that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be free and to be himself, again. But he’d worked on it. Little by little, the tailor had opened up and let Damen in, let him see the Laurent that was so scared of being hurt but wanted him badly enough to finally reach out to him from the crumbling ruins of his last defences. That Damen wanted him in return, and  _ waited _ for him, was nothing short of a miracle.

He’d promised him a marriage. A good, honest one, in the eyes of god. Or, well, someone’s god, at least. Marriage between two men is viewed as sin and immoral still, in their lands, but Patras… It had only been rumors heart in hushed voices at the backs of taverns, at first, but Damen’s merchant friends all but confirmed it; Patras allowed for the marriage of men. 

He’d promised him time. Once the company, his and Kastor’s father’s company, was fully off the ground and in the brothers’ control, Damen wanted to step down from his position as co-owner and take up a smaller role. Something that would allow him to stay home with Laurent more often, for longer periods of time. No more sailing far and wide for trade deals and business. As much as he’d loved the sea, he loved Laurent more.

He  _ loved  _ Laurent more.

He put the silver watch in Laurent’s hands a year ago, looked him in the eye, and promised him the world. And now both are gone.

Laurent lifts his head from where he’d been laying on the table, pillowed by his own arms. When had he fallen asleep? He blinks the stickiness from his eyes and glances out the window, finding it already dark.

He pushes himself away from the table and gets up, stretching his back out of the uncomfortable slouch it’s been in for the past few hours. Had he eaten anything at all, today? All his emptiness feels the same.

He somehow makes his way to his bedroom and manages to undress himself before collapsing on the mattress, over the sheets even. No matter what he may be feeling now, Laurent still has a job to do, and the shop must open tomorrow to make up for the business he likely lost today.  The world keeps turning, whether he likes it or not. 

Whether Damen is in it or not. 


	6. The Fourth Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! thanks again so much for your response to this :'3c i love you guys!!  
> here's just a bit of downtime for Laurent. We can't have the poor boy suffering in _every_ chapter, can we??

It’s an hour to closing time when the bell over the shop door rings, drawing Laurent out of his distracted scribbling. The past few weeks have been difficult for him, and it shows in the tenseness of his handwriting, in the deep grooves where he’d pressed his pen into the paper nearly deep enough to rip the pages. He scowls down at the mess he’d made of his own notes before looking up at the newcomer.

That Patran from last time, Torveld, gives him a hesitant wave as he steps around a rack of finished orders. He approaches the counter with something draped over his arm, which is likely to be Laurent’s next job. 

“Hello, Laurent,” Torveld greets, a gentle smile blooming across his face before it’s shadowed by sadness. “Berenger informed me of what happened last month, the accident. I’m terribly sorry for the loss of your... friend.”

He says it haltingly, as though unsure of the exact nature of the relationship. Surely Berenger must have told him.

“Thank you,” Laurent says, pushing his notes aside to make room for whatever Torveld has in store for him. “I’m working through it, one day at a time.”

“That’s good, yes. Sometimes the only thing you can do is put one foot in front of the other until you find the path again,” Torveld nods in sympathy. He gathers himself and seems to remember what he’d come for. 

He lays out the garment on the table, revealing a pair of trousers that match the jacket he’d brought the first time.

“I will need to have these adjusted, just a little,” he explains while Laurent picks up the pants, holding them out. A cursory glance confirms that yes, to Laurent’s expert eye the waist does seem a bit wide for a man of Torveld’s build. The length seems fine, thankfully.

“Of course. This should be rather quick, perhaps a week or so,” Laurent assesses, making a mental note of the adjustments he would have to make. His physical notes will need some tidying up as well, while he’s at it.

“That’s it? No more measurements?” Torveld asks. 

Laurent sighs in exasperated amusement. “I have your measurements in my records already, sir,” he explains. “No need to take them a second time.”

“If I’d known tailors kept records like that I might not have hated them so much as a child,” Torveld jokes, giving away his noble upbringing. 

“If you’d been a child at the time, you were still growing,” Laurent points out. “Whether they’d kept records of your measurements or not, you would have likely outgrown them by the next time you needed the tailor.”

Torveld huffs and lightly hits himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Of course, I hadn’t thought of that.”

Laurent only nods, barely registering the man’s response as he pulls the trousers over to his side of the counter, measuring the waist with his finger-widths. He checks the difference visually, deep in concentration until a hand on his shoulder startles him from his silence.

“Wh-?”

“Are you well rested, Laurent?” Torveld asks, and Laurent feels so distracted he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed at the familiarity. “You look exhausted. When was the last time you ate?”

“Um,” Laurent wracks his brain trying to remember if he’d had a meal today. It’s been quite a few days, after all.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then,” Torveld sighs. “Come, please. Just take a small break, close up the shop and let me find you a warm meal. It’s the least I can do for you.”

There is still time before he needs to close, but Laurent’s stomach growls and taking a break sounds heavenly right now. He puts Torveld’s trousers aside, folding them neatly, and rounds the counter until he and Torveld are standing side to side.

“Well?” Laurent asks, raising a single eyebrow at Torveld’s surprised expression. He tries to appear more confident than he appears, already feeling his walls going back up. This time, Damen isn’t inside them. Nobody is inside them. “Where are you taking me?”

 

It turns out that Torveld is on good terms with the owner of the White Lily, a rather nice restaurant with wealthier clientele. Nicer than Laurent’s usual meals, that’s for sure. Torveld insists on paying for the meal they share, offering to listen to what may be troubling Laurent.

“It’s not-” Laurent cuts himself off, eyes fixed on the plate of foot before him. It smells very good, but Torveld’s earnest look is putting him off. “I’ve been handling it.”

“By forcing yourself to work long hours and skip meals?”

Laurent barely reigns in the snarl that threatens to grace his features. “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” he replies, a hiss of defiance colouring his words.

A hand reaches over the table and rests on Laurent’s where it had been frozen, posed by his plate with his fork clenched tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Laurent hates how he notices it’s warm. His eyes fix on it and the moment freezes until Torveld hastily pulls his own hand back.

“My apologies,” Torveld says, averting his gaze in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be so familiar. I am simply, well, concerned for your wellbeing.”

“Why?”

Torveld grins ruefully. “It is as you’ve said, a friend of Berenger’s is a friend of mine. He’s expressed concern for you, as well, by the way. It would do you no good to waste away in your mourning, Laurent.”

Laurent tries to recall the last interaction he’d had with Berenger. The soft-spoken man had stopped by to pick up a new waistcoat two weeks ago, and Laurent remembers thinking that he’d been quieter than usual. Pensive, perhaps? Or, now that he thinks of it, worried. 

“It is kind of you both to be concerned for me,” Laurent says, easing the tension in the line of his shoulders slowly, deliberately. “But I’m afraid I will only need time for a wound of this nature to heal.”

“Of course,” Torveld acquiesces with a small nod. 

They continue to eat in strained silence until Torveld polishes off his plate, and Laurent stops himself about halfway through his own.

“You will let us care for you, at least?” Torveld inquires gently. “As friends, of course. We only wish the best for you.”

Laurent hesitates, his hands clasped over his lap to still the nervous tension in them.

“Yes,” he says at last. It would do him good to have some friends.


	7. The Fifth Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! i totally forgot to post this this morning but here it is :'3c   
> thanks again to those who commented/kudos'd i love and would die for you!! <3

He learns of it on a day like any other, with the sun shining brightly down on him despite the chill in his bones. Jokaste is feeding baby Leander, just under three months old, when she mentions it in an offhand comment. Laurent isn’t even fully sure how the topic comes up.

“They’re moving everything off of the Fortune,” she says, wiping at the corner of Leander’s mouth distractedly. “All of the crew’s belongings will need to be picked up, otherwise it will all be given or sold away.”

Laurent feels the frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “What about Damen’s belongings?”

Jokaste looks up at him in mild surprise, almost taken aback by the mere mention of the late merchant’s name. 

“I mean, will Kastor be picking them up?” Laurent continues, a mounting sense of dread settling into him.

“Oh, no,” Jokaste shakes her head, jostling the babe a little and making him cry out. She adjusts him softly before elaborating. “Kastor’s belongings were already removed from the ship weeks ago. Damen’s things were left on board, something about ‘preserving his presence’ or whatnot. Besides, Kastor wasn’t listed as Damen’s beneficiary. You are.”

Laurent pulls in a slow breath, fighting down the urge to scream. “So Damen’s belongings will need to be picked up, absolutely? Couldn’t they just leave them on the Fortune?”

“They were going to,” Jokaste sighs and shakes her head. “Of course, that was before it was decided that the ship needed to be fully repaired and refurbished.”

“But… why?”

Jokaste smiles strangely. “Kastor wants to take her to sea again.”

  
  


Laurent heads to the harbor reluctantly, keeping his eyes straight ahead and avoiding the gazes of the passers-by as he walks through the streets. The whispers are less than they were in the first week after the Fortune’s return, but still he knows some ill-meant murmurs are muddling in with the background noise.

It takes him years to get to the docks, and when he reaches the top of the staircase he needs to steady himself on the railing at the sight of the derelict ship. 

Her crew had abandoned her since her return, and the neglect over the course of two months shows. Her timbers are dull and the paint is worn on the sides where it had been buffeted by storms and debris and the side of the dock. The splintered railings along the edge jut out from her like broken bones.

Laurent steels himself and then walks down the stairs. 

There are a few dock workers milling about, mostly tending to the other ships. A few give him a halfhearted wave as he passes them, but quickly drop their hands when they realize which ship he is here for.

There are two men at the end of the Fortune’s dock: a regular worker and a man Laurent vaguely recognizes as having been a member of the Fortune’s crew. They both lift their heads to look at him, offering a mumbled greeting before they return their attention to the stack of documents they seem to be poring over.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Laurent announces himself, voice steadier than he feels as he approaches them. They’re both Akielon, like Damen was, and the dockhand looks like he would match the late merchant while the sailor is a little bit shorter. Laurent isn’t a small man, he’s perfectly average thank you, but being crowded by tall strangers would make any reasonable person nervous. “Would you, by any chance, know who I may speak to? For the recuperation of some possessions left on board the Lion’s Fortune, I mean.”

“You too, eh?” The dockhand frowns, the paper in his hand creasing where he grips it tighter in frustration. “Everyone wants the fortune that’s on the Fortune today, I take it.”

“No, I,” Laurent stops. He squirms just slightly under the taller man’s judging gaze. “What fortune? I’m just here for Damianos’ things.”

The dockhand squints. “Really, now? You and everyone else. You’ll have to get in line if you want anything of his.”

“‘In line’? What do you mean, ‘in line’?” Laurent frowns in annoyance. “Surely you can’t mean to be individually checking every person that shows up for which might be Damianos’ beneficiary.”

“Beneficiary?” The shorter Akielon exclaims, snorting in disbelief. “Like we’ll ever find the random bloke Damen picked as his beneficiary. Always thought that guy was a lunatic, not even bothering with his next of kin. It’s not like that family’s got any use for his shit anyway, now that he’s dead you might as well give it out to those who want it. Better than handing it over to whatever whore the man fucked while he was still around.”

Laurent raises an eyebrow, and turns to the sailor. “That whore would likely not appreciate the implication that he was not a significant presence in Damianos’ life to warrant being entrusted with his belongings, should he happen to pass.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” The sailor demands, suddenly fully aware of Laurent’s presence as he glares at him and crosses his arms.

“I think I am Laurent DeVere,” he responds, turning to face the dockworker with a dismissive gesture. “I believe you’ll find my name matches the one belonging to Damen’s whore. You know, the one listed as the beneficiary.”

Both Akielons turn sheet white as the dockhand flips through his stack of papers, eyes scanning the document frantically before nodding in resignation.

“Aye, that’s you all right,” the dockhand shows them both the papers and points at a line on the last page. Laurent’s heart clenches at the sight of the messy inked curve of the ‘L’ in the way only Damen would write it. 

Instantly the demeanor of the two Akielons changes, the dockhand becoming apologetic and the sailor tensing up. Laurent keeps himself carefully neutral between them. 

“My apologies, mister DeVere,” the dockhand says with a wince, shooting a glance at the sailor in warning. “We will let you retrieve Damen’s things without further delay. It’s lucky you came when you did, we weren’t sure what to do with the stuff if you didn’t show up.”

“Of course,” Laurent aqcuiesces. “I’d rather keep Damen’s belongings closer to myself and his family, than let them be put on auction.”

“Nothing worth auctioning, anyhow.” The sailor grumbles, his crossed arms visibly tightening around himself. “Fortune, my ass. Better to just give it out for free at this point.”

“Sorry for him, he’s been waiting for the Fortune to be emptied so her repairs can be started as soon as possible,” The dockhand explains. He tends a hand to Laurent amicably. “I am Atkis, and this is Theophilos.”

‘Theophilos’ doesn’t seem appreciative of the introduction and shoulders past Laurent to leave them alone on the dock beside the Lion’s Fortune. Atkis shrugs at the sailor’s retreating back and beckons to Laurent to follow him up onto the ship.

Laurent hadn’t been on many ships before, but seeing the Fortune devoid of all life is unsettling in a way he’d never known until now. Atkis seems unbothered by the stillness and leads them both below the decks. He lights the oil lamps as he passes by, allowing Laurent to see into the empty quarters. The cots are stripped and the hooks on the walls where hammocks should be hanging are bare.

“I assume Damen’s things are the last to be taken off the ship?” Laurent asks, if only to fill the unsettling silence with something other than the two sets of footsteps. 

Atkis nods rapidly. “Nobody else came before, to pick it up. We’d been waiting for you, actually, since Damen was always a stickler for the rules. Wanted to do right by him, y’know?”

“Kind of you.”

“Always heard good things about him,” Atkis continues, grabbing a ring of keys from his belt as he and Laurent reach a set of doors at last, leading to the Captain’s cabins. Damen and Kastor has specifically commissioned the cabins be split down the middle, one for each brother, so that they might be equals in this as well. “He was a good man. Always kind to us workers, y’know?”

“I’m glad you think highly of him,” Laurent says, watching Atkis’ hands as he unlocks the left door. The dockhand mumbles something in assent and pushes the door open, then steps aside so that Laurent could enter the room first.

It’s dark. Of course it is, Laurent reasons, but it still feels wrong. More wrong than the empty ship. The gloom of the cabin only serves to emphasize Damen’s absence. Laurent stops himself just inside the room and takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to be silent. Behind him, Atkis lights the oil lamp beside the door, casting an orange glow on the room.

Laurent recollects himself as the cabin is illuminated. He approaches the shelves, closed glass doors preventing the books inside from tumbling to the floor in the ocean turbulence. Each book is upright and aligned, the spines facing outward with their titles visible. Laurent didn’t even know Damen had all these books. The furniture is ornate even in its relative simplicity, from the sternly-carved headboard of the bed, to the bare desk against the far wall that’s polished and waxed to a shine.

“Fancy, eh?” Atkis remarks, observing in the scene with a critical eye. “No matter how nice a man acted, he was still rich in the end.”

“Yes.” Laurent says distractedly. He runs his fingertips over the surface of the desk, almost absent-minded in his circuit of the room, taking in everything about Damen’s last living space.

“No offense meant, of course,” Atkis adds hastily. “He was always giving, and humble, too.”

Laurent tunes out whatever else the man has to say, stopping at the large chest at the end of Damen’s bed. He crouches down and lifts the lid, unsurprised to find it unlocked, and begins rifling through the folded clothes. Nothing seems out of place, and  _ that _ seems stranger than if anything were amiss.

“Nobody else has entered this room?” Laurent asks, interrupting Atkis’ rambling. The dockhand cuts himself off by clearing his throat.

“No, uh, no sir,” he says. “Nobody else has access to this room. Only Damen and two other people have keys, not including myself.”

Laurent turns and looks up a the dockhand sharply. “Who are the two other people?”

“Well, Kastor, obviously,” Atkis states, counting it on his fingers. “Myself, or, well, technically the harbormaster. And the first mate.”

“Only those three? Has any one of them entered this cabin since the Fortune’s return?”

Atkis grows serious at the implication. “You think something’s been stolen, sir?”

“I’m not sure,” Laurent admits, getting up. He brushes some dust off his knees. “Something feels strange. It’s simply that… Damen was never usually this neat, at home.”

“As far as I know, nobody else aside from Kastor and myself have been in here, and the cabin looked just this way when I first took stock of it,” Atkis shrugs. “I’m in charge of the crew’s belongings, making sure everyone has everything that’s theirs. Actually, I have-”

The man stuffs his sheaf of documents under his arm and pats his pockets frantically until he happens to find what he’s looking for, pulling a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He unfolds it and gives it a quick once-over before turning it around and giving it to Laurent.

“That’s a list of everything that was in Kastor and Damen’s rooms,” he explains as Laurent takes the paper, scanning it quickly. “The other sailors don’t need a list, obviously, but it’s protocol for the captain’s things to be accounted for.”

Laurent stares at the checkmarks on the page. “Everything that’s here, is here?” He asks. “Nothing’s been marked as missing?”

Atkis confirms this with a nod. “Everything, except for one silver watch, sir.”

“Ah,” Laurent says. “Well, I don’t know where that is, either.”

  
  


It takes Laurent, Atkis, and a few other dockhands roughly an hour and a half to move a good number of Damen’s things off the ship, leaving only the desk and half of the books on the shelves that will need to be retrieved sometime later in the week. The bed, of course, cannot be moved, and honestly Laurent wouldn’t want it anyway. 

Someone is kind enough to get a farmer with an empty wagon to cart the belongings from the harbor to Laurent’s house. As Laurent stands on his own doorstep, looking down at the crates of books and clothes around him, he considers the idea that he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

He brings the crates inside on his own, one by one, pushing them into a corner without even bothering to unpack them. When he’s finally done he looks down at the things and exhales, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach.

Damen is home. As much of him as could be, at least, given the circumstances. It seems like a paltry reimbursement for Laurent’s loss. 


	8. The Sixth Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! i totally meant to post this yesterday, sorry :'3c

Laurent is putting some finished orders away when the bell over the shop door rings. He raises his eyes to see Torveld standing in the entrance. The noble waves at him tentatively.

“What brings you here, Torveld?” Laurent asks, the day resting heavily on his shoulders. “I was just closing up. Did you want to place an order before I leave?”

Torveld shifts his weight in a thus-far uncharacteristic show of nervousness. “No, I’m not in need of any adjustments this time.” The man has his hands in his pockets, and doesn’t quite look Laurent in the eye.

Laurent rounds the counter to stand before him. Torveld and Berenger have been good friends to him in the past weeks, coaxing him slowly out of the hole he’d dug himself since Damen’s death. They’d offered dinner, and outings, and conversations in turns to distract him and dull the loneliness, for which Laurent can’t help but be grateful. Neither bring up the topic of Damen, for which Laurent is grateful as well. He isn’t sure if he can speak of him without falling back into the spiral.

So the effort they’d gone through to make Laurent comfortable was not insignificant. It would be unkind of Laurent to dismiss whatever troubles the kind man in return.

“Is something the matter?” Laurent asks, and he’s almost surprised to find that he isn’t faking his concern. “Have you fallen ill?”

“No, no, I’m quite alright,” Torveld shakes his head and takes a steadying breath. “I’ve just come to inform you that I may be returning to Patras, soon.”

“Oh?” Laurent knew that he’d been here on some sort of trip, but he wasn’t expecting to lose his new friend so soon. “That’s lovely. It always feels better to be at home.”

Torveld nods. “Of course. Which is why I would like to do this, before I run out of time to do so.”

The Patran pulls something out of his pocket, showing his hands for the first time since he’d come in. He presents Laurent with a small, wooden box. The cover is ornately carved with filigree designs, and the clasp on the front is shiny gold. Laurent isn’t entirely sure what expression he makes in his shock.

“I had this made for you. I thought you might like it. You know, since…”

Laurent takes the box and stares down at it, unwilling to open it. His thumb brushes over the clasp. 

“Why are you giving me this, Torveld?”

Torveld looks away and flushed slightly, chuckling. “It’s nothing to be wary of. It won’t bite you, you know,” the noble teases. “It’s just a token.”

A token. Laurent flips open the clasp and opens the box to reveal the contents inside. 

On a bed of deep green velvet sits an expensive looking pocketwatch. The cover is polished to brilliance, reflecting the lowering sunlight that streams in through the shop window. The surface of it is as decorated as the box it comes in, with a flat round plaque in the middle where Laurent’s initials are engraved. With a trembling hand, Laurent takes the watch out of the velvet and pops the lid open.

Torveld is saying something but Laurent can’t quite hear it. All he can hear is the rush of blood in his head, and really he must be bleeding from somewhere because his vision is going red. The inside of the watch’s cover is engraved neatly with a short quote from one of the books he and Laurent had discussed over dinner once, and dedication addressed to him on Torveld’s behalf.

“What is this?” Laurent asks, and something in his tone must be intimidating because Torveld stops his rambling dead. “What is this?”

“Do you not like it?” Torveld asks in return, his smile a little tight around the edges. “I thought it might be a nice substitute for your other one. The broken one, that your- well, friend, gave you. I’d also like to offer it as an expression of my intent, if you might be amenable.”

Laurent snaps the watch closed and tightens his fist around it, making the chain jingle pitifully. “You think you can replace my watch?” he demands, meeting Torveld’s nervous gaze with ice in his voice and his heart. “You think you can replace  _ him?” _

Torveld drops his smile, clearly sensing he’s made some sort of mistake and quickly tries to make amends. “Of course not, I don’t mean to- Your loss is not diminished by my-”

“Get out!” Laurent hisses through clenched teeth, advancing on the hapless noble and forcing him to back into the door. “You have some nerve. You know what Damen meant to me. You  _ know _ what that watch meant to me!”

“I understand that you are still grieving-”

“I said get out!” Laurent snarls, startling Torveld badly. He watches with feral eyes as the man fumbles with the doorknob. 

The venture takes just too long for Laurent’s liking, and he whips the pocketwatch in the Patran’s direction. It explodes against the wall barely a hand’s breadth away from Torveld’s head, scattering little gold pieces and gears all over the floor. The wooden box closely follows, glancing off of the door jamb and splitting in two.

Torveld manages to get the door open and all but flees the scene, leaving Laurent alone in the empty shop staring out into the sunset. A couple walking by turns to watching confusion as Torveld makes his hasty retreat. 

With the side of his shoe, Laurent sweeps the pieces of the gold watch out the door before pushing it closed.

  
  


Laurent walks to the sea. He takes the same path he did when he’d first learned of Damen’s death, following in his own footsteps to the empty beach. The tide is high, this time, and he has less far to travel before his feet are half-submerged.

He stands there for a long time, just watching the waves roll in. He remembers the tantrum he threw the last time he was here, and offers a silent apology to the water for it. After a little while longer, he bends down and removes his shoes, tossing them somewhere behind him further up on the sand. He considers his options for a moment, and then his vest, shirt, and trousers follow.

He measures his breaths as he wades into the sea and a shiver runs up his legs as the water meets his skin, cold despite the warm weather. Once he’s deep enough he leans backward into the surf, letting himself be buoyed by the waves. It feels good, almost light, to just let himself drift. His hair fans out on either side of his head, tugging softly with the current.

Even with the turmoil in his chest over Torveld’s unwanted advances, and the still-fresh loss of Damen, Laurent feels at peace here. Slowly, he lifts his legs until he’s lying flat on his back on the surface of the water. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh with Torveld, he considers, but when he saw the gold watch he simply lost himself. 

It must have been expensive, Laurent frowns. What a terrible waste. Then again, it isn’t the first time he’d done something atrocious to a watch in a fit of pique. 

A quick glance toward the shore reveals that he’s a little farther from the shore than he probably should be, but Laurent isn’t too worried. He’s a good swimmer, and the sea is calm today. He lets out a deep sigh and sucks in a breath before dunking himself underwater until he is sitting on the sand. 

As his head is submerged the noises of the world are muffled by the sea, leaving him in blessed silence for the first time in months. He opens his eyes. He has to blink through the salt but eventually his vision clears enough that he can see the world that lives beneath the surface. Everything is tinged in a lovely pale blue-green. The seaweed that waves in the current is dark blue, even if Laurent knows that on the beach it’s an ugly greenish brown, and the sand is a mess of turquoise ripples on the seabed. 

Something is glistening on the seabed.

Laurent’s eyebrows shoot upward in surprise and he swims toward the mysterious object, a flare of delicate hope in his chest. Surely it couldn’t be…. But if it was….?

He is within a few arms length of it now and he’s almost certain that there, buried in the silt and sand, is a silver pocket watch. He almost gasps before remembering himself, clasping a hand over his mouth and nose to prevent water from choking him. He kicks toward the watch and reaches for it.

A shadow moves in his peripheral vision, and Laurent freezes. It isn’t shark season, but one can never be too careful. He moves more slowly toward the watch anyway, unwilling to let it go a second time.

The shadow moves again and this time Laurent has to turn, his heart thudding in his chest uncomfortably. His breath protests in his lungs. 

There, farther into the ocean, is a lurking form. He can make out the pointed fin of a tail in the salt-clouded water, but it hangs like dead weight instead of moving, pumping the creature forward. The shadow bobs in the current, turning it ever so slightly, and then Laurent sees it; the unmistakable shape of arms, a human torso, and a head.

A person being eaten? A person being attacked? Mind and heart racing, Laurent makes a quick decision to offer aid, when everything in the world jerks to a halt.

He knows that head. He knows that curly, tousled mane of hair. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been waving goodbye to it months ago, alone on a dock at the start of the stormy season. The head turns upward slowly, slowly, facing him with bottomless black pits for eyes.

Laurent can’t help himself. He screams.

  
  


Laurent coughs and hacks violently as he treads water, having clawed his way frantically to the surface in his panic. What had he seen? What was that? Before he can talk himself out of it he dives again, straining his vision into the deeper water in search of the shadow again. 

The ocean around his is completely empty, devoid of all movement except for the clumps of seaweed and the eddies of silt stirred up by his own swimming. Not even a glimmer of silver in the sand below him from the watch he’s sure had been there.

What a cruel trick to play on his weary mind, Laurent thinks. Resigned, he pulls himself back out of the water and kicks toward the shore. He’ll let himself dry up a bit before getting dressed and making the trek back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sniff sniff smells like fish


	9. The Seventh Month - part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry for no post last week, I was in exams and totally wasn't up to it :') But! I'm giving this one to you a day early! Cheers!
> 
> Also, happy mermay!! <3

Atkis isn’t at the docks today, to Laurent’s annoyance, but a couple of other dockhands are willing to help him carry the rest of Damen’s belongings off the ship.

They introduce themselves as Pallas and Lazar. Pallas is an Akielon with a gentle demeanor who claims some distant familial ties to Atkis, while Lazar is a roguish-looking Veretian. He warns Laurent not to believe a second of Pallas’ innocent facade.

“You’d think he’s sweet,” Lazar stage-whispers to him behind his hand. “But he’s as spicy as the best of them.”

Not that Laurent needed to know, of course, but it seems the man cannot help himself from making lewd comments at every given opportunity. It’s amusing, as crude as it is.

Pallas’ help is greatly appreciated, the man hauling the remaining books off the shelves in stacks, while Lazar’s help is… Well, he’s helping in his own way, Laurent supposes. Lazar picks the books and baubles off of the shelf one by one, periodically cracking a book open and reading one of the passages out loud while Pallas and Laurent pack things up. Inevitably, he picks up an old ledger and starts listing off some of the names and trade deals from the company’s early days, when Damen’s father still owned it. Lazar tires of that rather quickly and chooses a new book.

It’s not quite as helpful as Laurent would have liked, but the distraction is nice. It keeps his mind off of the fact that the last of Damen’s things are being put away, and the finality of Pallas hammering nails into the crate tops to keep them shut. 

Pallas is kind enough to carry the crates up to the deck by himself to let Laurent and Lazar wander the ship, insisting that a tailor’s hands were not meant to be full of splinters from carrying boxes. Laurent almost takes offense, but reconsiders when the Akielon just seems so earnest in his desire to be of assistance. 

Lazar accompanies Laurent as he wanders around the ship, pointing out certain aspects and making comments about it. It’s rather entertaining, if Laurent were to be honest, and since he can’t give much insight about the craftsmanship of boats he’s more than content to let the dockhand ramble on.

He doesn’t even realize when, eventually, Lazar leads him out onto the top deck. Laurent freezes at the sight of  the wooden banisters ripped from their place, cracked and bent where they should have been steady to hold up the sailors. The last line of defence between the crew on deck, and the sea. Nowhere else on the ship has seen destruction like this, and Laurent knows in that moment that this is where Damen went overboard.

He needs to sit down.

He doesn’t of course. He walks over to the shattered wood and reaches out, possessed, until his fingertips brush the salt-worn splintering. Behind him, Lazar has stopped rambling. The man comes up beside Laurent and rests his hand on an unbroken part of the railing.

“I know how you feel,” Lazar says, but quickly amends. “I would know how you feel, rather. I think I’d feel the same way if I lost Pallas, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Laurent turns to him with a glare that softens at the serious look on Lazar’s face. “Really?” he is all he says, skepticism dripping from that one word.

“Don’t look so surprised, how else do you suspect I know him so well?”

“Forgive me for my assumption that being physical does not automatically equate to a meaningful emotional relationship,” Laurent deadpans. Thankfully Lazar doesn’t take offense and merely laughs.

“Could be worse,” Lazar points out. “Most folk tend to stop their assumption at the physical part. That's where they start their opinions, too.”

Laurent can only nod in agreement. He realizes too late that, in his distraction, he’d been running his thumb over the break in the wood. Something feels strange about it, but he can’t quite place what it is yet. 

“No judgement here,” Lazar continues, gesturing broadly to the ship below them, and to the sea. “Just us and the open water. That’s the beauty of it, see? Surround yourself with folk like you, or who like you, and you’d never have to deal with assholes ever again. Unless you want to, of course. The  _ good _ kind, if you know what I mean.” He punctuates that last statement with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Laurent shakes his head slightly, amused. “If only it were that easy.”

Both of them fall silent, listening to the faint sound of Pallas’ thick accent calling out somewhere behind them, taking care of the crates as he brings them down to the docks. Seagulls scream overhead, and if Laurent tilts his head back he can see them perched up on the masts. 

“What was he like?” Lazar asks, cutting straight to the chase, and Laurent appreciates that the man doesn’t treat him delicately. 

“He was,” Laurent says, then takes a sharp breath. His heart rate picks up even if he knows there’s no reason for it to. He swallows around the lump in his chest. When was the last time he’d spoken about Damen? He hadn’t spoken to Kastor since the man’s return and he hadn’t wanted to bother Jokaste with the subject either, unwilling to disturb the new family with his own problems.

Even Berenger and, Laurent inwardly cringes, Torveld had tactfully avoided the topic of his dead lover whenever they’d spent time with him. As if not speaking of him would make it as though he’d never existed, as if Laurent’s pain had never existed, in the first place. 

Lazar is patient beside him as he works through his moment. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Laurent regains his footing.

“He was, well, kind.” Laurent decides that’s a safe place to start, He turns his eyes down to where he picks at the splintered railing with his fingernails. “And hard-working. He was generous with his family, and his crew as well. He was a good man.”

“That’s nice,” Lazar says after a few seconds, drawing his words out sarcastically. “But that’s not what i meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” Laurent squints and looks at the dockhand out of the corner of his eye.

“What was he like, to  _ you?” _

Laurent breathes in time with the gentle swell of waves as they rock against the flank of the ship. He pulls his gaze away from Lazar and stares out over the water, as if it might be easier to face the sea rather than the man beside him. Something about the steadiness of the water quells the turmoil inside him. He wonders, then, if this is how Damen always felt on the sea, and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Gentle,” he says after a few seconds. He doesn’t think about what he’s saying. “He was gentle, on purpose. He lived all his life on a ship, he had the strength to match the best of them. But he never turned that strength on me. I was both the most fragile glass and the hardest steel and he only ever treated me gently.”

“Even glass has its sharp edges,” Lazar points out with a chuckle.

“Yes. He cut himself on me more often than I like to admit,” Laurent’s thumb catches on a splinter. He pries the bit of wood out of the beam and rolls it between his fingertips. “He never acted like I was broken for it.”

He can’t see him, but he knows Lazar is nodding. 

“How was he at home?” Lazar prompts again.

This time Laurent thinks about the answer. He knows what people want to hear. That he was organized, punctual, and orderly. A businessman. But that is not Laurent’s lie to tell.

“He was a disaster,” Laurent says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I fought him tooth and nail to file his papers in a way that was comprehensible. He lost things more than he found them, and the things he wasn’t looking for turned up in the strangest of places.”

Laurent leans forward over the railing and rests both elbows on the wood, where it isn’t broken too badly. An echo floats to the front of his mind, and he finds himself wanting to share it. 

“He found a Patran trading license in his wardrobe, once,” he breathes a laugh at the memory of Damen’s baffled expression. “Even though I’d told him to put it in the desk drawers with the other important documents. It was the third time it happened that week.”

“Sounds like he was lucky to have you.”

Laurent turns back to Lazar, a smile ghosting his lips only just, and yet easier than he had in months. “He used to say so, too.”

It’s in the moment of openness that Laurent drops his guard, lets himself think of Damen without the haze of blind grief hanging over his eyes. He remembers how happy he was.

It feels like there are gears inside of him, dusted and dry from lack of use, that are slowly beginning to turn again.

There’s a shadow in the water. 

Laurent only sees it out of the corner of his eye, but it’s enough to startle him back from the railing. His arm catches on the broken wood and tears a long line down his sleeve and leaving a raised, red welt on the skin below. He pulls the arm back into himself with a hiss.

“You alright?” Lazar is suddenly there, taking Laurent’s arm carefully and turning the injury toward himself. “No splinters,” he confirms. “Looks like it hurts like a bitch, though.”

“No, I’m alright, I shouldn’t have moved so quickly,” Laurent waves off the dockhand’s concern, extracting his arm from the probing grip. 

“Hey, you seeing this?” Lazar lets go of him easily in favor of pointing at the wooden rail that caused the scratch. 

Laurent rolls his eyes. “I saw it, yes.”

“No, no, I mean-” Lazar motions insistently at the broken wood. “Look at this. See this, here? That’s not broken. That’s much too clean to be broken.”

Laurent stops rubbing his smarting arm and leans into where Lazar is indicating, and immediately sees what the man means. Where the railing is broken, the front half of the wood isn’t splintered at all. In fact, if Laurent didn’t know any better, he would almost describe the wood as having been cut with a knife. 

“What are you saying?” Laurent asks, watching as Lazar inspects the break more closely, face inches away from the wood.

“What I’m saying,” Lazar replies, the most serious Laurent has seen him all day. “Is that I think this was tampered with.”


	10. The Seventh Month - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay again folks!! i'm gonna see if maybe a every-2-weeks posting schedule is better for me :0c

Laurent can’t seem to move. His eyes are frozen on the dockhand beside him, uncomprehending.

“I don’t think I’m following,” he says slowly, fighting through the urge to shout, deny, lash out at something. Anything. “How could the railing be tampered with?”

“Bulwark,” Lazar says.

“Excuse me?”

“This,” Lazar points at the railing, “is called the bulwark of a ship, not a railing.”

Laurent makes a choked noise. “Does that really matter? Explain what you mean, the railing- the  _ bulwark  _ being tampered with.” The words leave his mouth in a hiss.

“Look, I can’t say for sure,” Lazar shakes his head, rubbing the spot between his eyes. The frown on his face doesn’t suit him. “I’m not exactly a carpenter, and I’m certainly no expert on sabotaging boats either, but that,” he points at the precisely cut edge of the wood and repeats, “looks much too clean to be accidental, in my humble opinion.” 

Laurent says nothing, the words processing in his brain.

“You don’t seem surprised.” Lazar states.

“It’s just…”

“What?”

Laurent rubs his thumb down the length of the scratch on his arm, the pain grounding him for a moment. “Damen’s quarters were clean, when I came to pick up his belongings.”

It takes a few seconds for Lazar to connect the dots, with the anecdote that Laurent had told him earlier. He curses and paces around on the deck while Laurent fights to calm his racing mind. Lazar returns and curses again, rubbing his head, contrite.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he mutters. “Shit. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Nothing is certain,” Laurent replies, but isn’t it? That Damen’s room was cleaned, in a way the man himself never would have, and the possibility that the railing- bulwark, had been sabotaged? Twice may be a coincidence, but Laurent doesn’t believe in coincidences.

“What was stolen? Maybe you could narrow down a list of people who wanted to steal from him,” Lazar suggests, and it isn’t a bad idea, if only something  _ were _ stolen.

“Nothing was taken, and I don’t know what the thief was looking for,” Laurent’s shoulders sag just slightly, eyes unfocused over the water. Nothing moves in the ocean except for the waves. “Everything was just, clean. It was as if a person had gone to his room, straightened everything out, and then left.”

Lazar makes another frustrated noise. “I really don’t get paid enough for this. I’m not a constable or anything,” he huffs, and then considers. “I can tell you what I’ve heard around, here and there, if you think it might be worth bringing to the law? Just rumors, but maybe something will stand out.”

“Yes,” Laurent says quickly, nodding. “This is just speculation, of course. For all we know it was just an unfortunate accident. Things like this happen in the storm season.”

“Of course,” Lazar agrees, but the man has no capacity for concealing his thoughts, and doubt is clear on his face.

Laurent peers over the other side of the ship, where dock workers are milling about below. Not taking the chance of eavesdroppers, Laurent gestures to Lazar to follow him, and heads back below deck.

The door to Damen’s chambers are still unlocked, with only one book of ledgers left to carry off the ship, so Laurent locks it behind them and heads further into the room, where nobody could hear them.

“Tell me what you’ve heard,” Laurent says lowly, and Lazar leans in conspiratorially. 

“Nothing’s for certain, of course,” Lazar begins.

“Of course.”

“I’ve heard some old rumors that the brother, Kastor, he might have held an old grudge over your Damen for co-inheriting the company,” the dockhand whispers. “What with being the illegitimate son, after all. Wanted the whole thing to himself, I heard.”

Laurent waves this off as an automatic reaction. “Impossible, Damen was stepping down from his position in the company to give full ownership of it to Kastor. He had no reason to bear Damen any ill will.”

Lazar only stares at him blankly, frowning in a caricature of confusion. Dread seeps into Laurent’s bones.

“What is it?” he asks, and Lazar shakes his head.

“I- we didn’t know he was stepping down. Nobody knew that.” Lazar explains. “This is the first time I’ve heard of that.”

“That… That can’t be right,” Laurent feels his face scrunch in frustration. “He was supposed to announce it on the Fortune’s maiden voyage, he was going to pass the mantle on to Kastor and let it be his first venture as owner of the company.”

“No, I would’ve heard of that before, for sure. If there’s one thing about sailors, it’s that they can’t keep any of their damn mouths shut.” Lazar  _ tsk _ s in a strange mix of disapproval and amusement. “Worse than village gossipers, the lot, I tell you.”

“Focus,” Laurent snaps, and the other man sobers up quickly.

“Right,” Lazar clears his throat, and resumes. “Anyway, I’m certain that he never stepped down, or at least he hadn’t done so publically. We dock workers hear everything the moment a ship’s come in to port, I would’ve remembered something like that.”

Laurent bites the inside of his lip and searches his mind. Had Kastor acted any differently, months ago when he’d returned from the trip? Not that he remembers, but perhaps there had been a hint, a small one, that might have given away Kastor’s involvement…

“There is another thing,” Lazar says, interrupting Laurent’s train of thought. “This one, I definitely heard about. It’s all the workers could talk about for weeks after the Fortune’s return.”

“What is it?”

Lazar looks at the door and listens for any sign of footsteps before continuing: “I don’t recall ever having met the man personally, myself, but he’s quite popular amongst the dock workers, and the other ships’ crews as well, so of course everyone’s talked about the incident at this point.”

“Which is?” 

“Now, of course, most of the Fortune’s crew would have my head for even daring suggest he could have commited murder- that’s what we’re calling it, yes? The crew would be monumentally pissed if they even  _ think  _ I told you this, so you must be very careful who you voice your suspicions to-”

“Lazar!”

“The first mate!” Lazar blurts out, then slaps his hand over his mouth. He removes the hand hesitantly after a few moments to continue. “You  _ cannot  _ say this to anybody else—folks around here damn near worship the ground the man walks on, from what I’ve heard—but there’s been some talk around the bars, mostly from the Fortune’s crew, that the first mate and your Damen had an argument. Either the day of the storm or the day before, I can’t remember, but others say it came close to blows.” 

Laurent frowns at the idea of Damen being angry enough to resort to physical violence. He hadn’t thought it possible for the gentle giant of a man to harm another person, before. “Has anyone said what the fight was about?” he asks, but Lazar shakes his head.

“You know how rumors are, everyone says something different and it’s impossible to tell what’s true or false.” He shrugs. “The only thing the rumors can agree on, is that a fight happened between the first mate and your Damen, and that it was brutal.”

Laurent sits down on the edge of Damen’s bed fingernails drumming rhythmically against the wood of the frame. Lazar paces the room for a while, both of them lost in thought, until Lazar perks up and hastily unlocks the door. He grabs the last crate of books from the floor and pushes the door open just as Pallas and two other men stop in front of the chambers.

“Ah!” Pallas exclaims, taking the crate from Lazar. “Thank you, I was just coming back for this.”

Laurent recognizes one of the men with him as Theophilos, the crewmember with an unpleasant attitude. He offers a tight smile and a half-hearted wave, earning himself a scowl in response. The other man is new, though Laurent is sure he’d seen him milling about on the docks before.

“Are you all quite done?” Theophilos grinds out. “The repairs for the Fortune cannot be put off for much longer if she is to be sent on another venture soon.”

Pallas hefts the crate onto his hip with one arm and gives a sarcastic little salute before turning back and carrying the books toward the stairs to the deck, followed by the unnamed dockhand. Lazar is the only one who hangs back with Laurent, and they both watch Theophilos warily as he enters the room, casting a critical eye around as if to check that the shelves are really emptied.

“When are the repairs planned to begin?” Laurent asks conversationally, getting up from the bed and smoothing the sheets with his hand.

“Next week,” is Theophilos’ curt reply. 

Laurent’s heart pounds. That’s much too soon, far too little time for Laurent to find the person responsible for Damen’s death, and he will need the sabotaged bulwark as proof of the crime when he brings his claims to the law.

“I’m asking,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even, “because I would like to take the bed and desk, after all.”

Theophilos rounds on him with fury in his eyes. “That will take another week of waiting, maybe more! Haven’t you delayed this long enough?” he snarls, sticking an accusatory finger in Laurent’s face. “The Lion’s Fortune needs to be repaired, or else she will cost a great deal of business for your dead merchant’s company, and weeks worth of lost wages from her crew. Is that any way to respect his memory?”

“I’ll thank you not to bring my respect for Damen into question,” Laurent snaps coldly, brought into focus by the vitriol in the other man’s tone. “My reasons for wanting his furniture are my own, and I do not owe an explanation to you. In fact, I would like the shelves, as well. See to it that the harbormaster knows, and that he hires only the best team to dismantle Damianos’ furniture.” This, he addresses to Lazar, who nods understandingly. “I wouldn’t want to have to bring in a complaint about your poor service, after all.”

Outclassed, Theophilos can only grit his teeth and nod before he heads out stiffly. Lazar waits until the man is gone and out of earshot before turning back to Laurent.

“That was clever, I suppose, if you don’t think too much on it,” Lazar says. “But how will you find the culprit in only a few weeks? You cannot simply walk up to a constable and say  _ ‘hello, officer, I’d like to report a murder. Oh, no I don’t have any evidence or suspects yet, but believe me, it was murder!’ _ That would likely not go very well for anyone involved.”

“We do not know if it was a murder, not yet,” Laurent reminds him, voice hard. “Though I can’t very well deny it forever, I suppose. Damianos died under mysterious circumstances and I need to find out what happened to him, starting with this altercation he had with the first mate.”

Lazar looks at him with a slack jaw, perhaps taken aback by Laurent’s reaction, or his lack thereof, to discovering his lover had likely been murdered. He steels himself with a nod.

“Right,” Lazar replies, in the same tone. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”


	11. The Seventh Month - interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this is so short, ive been having a bit of a rough week. next update will have more action :'3c

A few weeks, at the very most. It’s all that he has and it’s all that runs through Laurent’s head, even as he’s seated at the lavish dinner table in Damen’s, now Kastor’s, estate. Jokaste and Leander are happily chattering to each other in babbles and nonsense, while Kastor himself eats his meal in silence. The man’s gaze falls fondly on his wife and child, but his smile is wan and distant.

Laurent chews the last of his beansprouts politely, offering Leaner a small wave when the baby looks in his direction. Leander lets out a delighted squeal at the gesture.

He looks at Kastor, the man’s eyes deep and shadowed. Like the water.

A question burns in the roof of Laurent’s mouth, and he rolls it over his tongue hesitantly. Something he’d heard months ago, which had been brought about by a few moments of a drunkard’s ramblings, but he remembers what he saw in the water.

“I heard,” Laurent begins and the swallows, the first opening to a conversation that he’d given since his arrival this evening. Jokaste and Kastor both turn their eyes toward him questioningly, warily. The noise of the dining room hushes unnaturally, like a shroud descending upon the house. He looks down at his plate.

He clears his throat and tries again. “I heard,” he rasps, then starts again. “Is it true, that those who die at sea are cursed?”

There’s a loud clatter from the other side of the table, and Laurent looks back up to see that Kastor has dropped his own fork and knife. Tension grips the Akielon, his lips thinned and face pale with anger.

“No,” Kastor shakes his head brusquely. “Only those who die unjust deaths at sea are cursed.”

“Only unjust deaths?”

Jokaste takes Leander in her arms and shields his head as Kastor brings his fist down on the surface of the table. 

“The cursed are like ghosts,” Kastor says, through gritted teeth. “Trapped on this plane through some divine joke. They know no rest and find no sleep. It is not a fate for those who die well.”

“I hope Damen died well,” Laurent muses, chewing on the end of his fork in a petty display of rudeness. “I’ve been seeing shapes in the water, is all.”

“Your shapes are waves,” Kastor pushes away from the table, sending his chair crashing to the floor behind him. His breath comes in bursts. “Just waves, nothing more. How could you even imply otherwise?”

Laurent puts down his utensils, slowly. “I simply heard, some time ago, that those who do not find the bottom of the locker-”

“He found the locker!” Kastor shouts, an almost frantic and wounded noise. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ cast my brother’s soul adrift simply because  _ you  _ want to keep him here. Let him rest, damn you!”

Laurent would say something else, but Kastor storms out of the dining room and slams the door behind him. He distantly registers Leander’s cries and braces himself for Jokaste’s wrath.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the new mother seems tired and disappointed, holding her son to her breast to quell his sobs. With her free hand she rubs her eyes.

“We invite you to our home because you were close to us, before,” she says, smoothing her palm down Leander’s back. “Damen would’ve wanted us to keep in touch with you, and we do want you around.”

“... But?” Laurent prompts, his lips tugging downward.

“But,” Jokaste’s voice sharpens, the way it used to before she was with child. “We did not sign up for you to be coming into our home, fed our food, and extended an olive branch, only for you to dredge up painful matters.”

Laurent suddenly feels as though he is a child being scolded. “It was a question,” he defends weakly.

“Was it?” Jokaste snaps, and Leander’s sobs renew. She sits back in her chair and pulls the babe higher on her chest, her expression softening some. “I know you are hurting, but Kastor is hurting as well. Damen was his, before he was yours. You would do well to remember that.”

Laurent pushes away from the table, putting his utensils and dinner napkin onto his finished plate for picking up. “I will take my leave, then,” he says, breathing in deeply before continuing. “Please extend my apologies to Kastor.”

He hastens his departure and is nearly out the door when Jokaste stops him again, leaning against the doorframe as she watches him with Leander on her arm.

“You are welcome here,” she reminds him. “You are a good man, and a good friend. Don’t let your own hurt cause you to lash out at others, that’s all.”

Laurent nods and heads out, closing the door softly behind him. Once he’s on the street he turns back to look at the house. Kastor is in one of the second floor windows, watching him. Laurent waves slightly, but the man turns his face downward, looking at something in his hand. It’s much too small to see from here, but it glints silver in the sunlight.


End file.
